


Inspiration

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7292419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin finds inspiration in Douglas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jay_eagle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/gifts).



When Martin comes home, it is nearing evening. The late afternoon sun is still shining, but it sits low in the sky. He unlocks the door and walks in, kicking off his shoes and nudging the door shut as he drops his keys on the side table. The house is quiet, save for the faint sound of birdsong from the open kitchen window. Martin glances into the backyard, the living room, and the kitchen, and finds them all empty. Curious, he walks through to the bedroom.

There, he finds Douglas. Martin pauses in the doorway, gaze softening at the sight of Douglas curled up on the bed, asleep. The sunlight streams in from the window above the bed, casting a slight golden glow across the sheets and Douglas' shoulders. He's shirtless, the sheets draped artfully over his hips, and his arms are tucked under his head, wrapped around the pillow. His face is half buried in the pillow and half turned toward Martin. Martin watches the subtle rise and fall of his back, and lets his eyes trace over the curve of Douglas' spine, fingers itching to touch. But Douglas' face is peaceful, relaxed in a way he rarely is awake, defenses down and creases smoothed away, and Martin has to stand there for a minute, just to savor it. 

Martin feels for a moment what he imagines an artist would, the sudden desire to put the lines of Douglas' figure to paper, to immortalize the soft expression, the sunlight pooling in his hair, the dip of his back. But Martin isn't an artist, at least not like that, and he could never do justice to the sight of his lover like this.

So instead, he sits gently on the edge of the bed, tucked into the curve of Douglas' waist, and lets his fingertips glide over the skin, warmed from the sun. Harder than a tickle, but soft enough to not wake Douglas, Martin strokes from the top of the spine to where the sheets lay at his waist. Carefully and methodically, he traces the planes of Douglas' shoulder blades, maps the couple of freckles, and brushes the hair of out of his eyes. Douglas' eyelids flutter, but he doesn't wake. 

As Martin uses one finger to draw a line between a small scar and a mole, he pauses. He may not be an artist, but inspiration strikes where it wants, and Martin, while not possessing the kind of heart that finds inspiration in sunsets and busy streets, can still be moved to art. Martin reaches to the nightstand, where a half-finished crossword lays, and grabs the ballpoint pen. Martin eyes the pen for a moment, then eyes Douglas. Douglas has always been ridiculously tolerant of anything Martin does, so Martin shrugs and uncaps the pen. 

Lines begin to form, starting where Douglas' neck meets his shoulders, and extend out from there. Martin drags the pen back and forth, until shapes and figures and pictures begin forming under his hand. Martin moves the point of the pen along Douglas' ribcage, down to his hipbones, circles the vertebrae of his spine. The ink spreads like a map over Douglas' back, thin lines of black forming something of a rough diagram of an airplane. There's no exact model Martin was drawing, but the wings stretch shoulder to shoulder and the body follows the length of Douglas' spine. He's added other small drawings across Douglas' torso, bits and pieces so the whole thing resembles a blueprint more than anything. It's not like its an amazing work of art, and the lines aren't completely clean, some parts darker or thicker or smudged, but Martin is a pilot, not an artist, even if he did see an open canvas in the exposed backside of his boyfriend.

Satisfied with his work, Martin caps the pen and takes a moment to simply look. Douglas has remained asleep the entire time, which doesn't surprise Martin all that much. The man has slept through thunderstorms before. He had twitched and shifted a few times, but Martin had gone undisturbed as he laid the ink down. Martin knows he'll likely be helping Douglas wash it off later, and lets that thought cheer him as he stands and stretches. He'll let Douglas stay asleep for a little while longer while he orders a takeaway. A quick phone call later, and the food is on it's way, so Martin returns to the bedroom and gently prods Douglas awake.

Douglas wakes up slowly, drowsy and warm, even though the sun has been set for some time. Martin is softly murmuring his name, one hand stroking through his hair, and he rumbles something incoherent in response. Martin laughs a little, his hand moving to stroke across Douglas' back and Douglas arches up into the contact. 

“It's time for dinner, you know. Hope you're in the mood for curry.”

Douglas grunts in assent, and rolls over so he can sit up. He drags a hand down his face, trying to wake up all the way, and when he pulls his hand away, Martin leans forward and presses a quick kiss to his lips. The doorbell rings and Martin is halfway across the room before Douglas registers that he's moved. He grumbles at Martin's absence, but resigns himself to getting up. A quick stop in the bathroom, and he pauses as something catches his eye. He turns his back to the mirror and stares. 

The drawing isn't the best, the lines rough and unsteady in places, but the images are recognizable, especially to a pilot, and Douglas finds himself admiring the work. Most prominent is a sketchily rendered outline of what he thinks is a Spitfire stretching from his neck to his waistline, and Douglas grins. 

He saunters out to the kitchen, clad only in sweatpants, and walks up behind Martin, who is pulling plates down from the cupboard. Douglas wraps his arms around Martin and buries his nose in the ginger curls. Martin makes a contented but amused sound. Apparently he can tell that Douglas saw his handiwork. Douglas presses a kiss to Martin's head.

“You're quite the artist, Martin.”

Martin huffs out a laugh.

“It's very circumstantial.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm, yes. I have to be inspired properly, you see.”

“And what is it that inspires you?”

Martin doesn't answer right away, turning in Douglas' arms so they're facing one another. He reaches up and cups Douglas' jaw, and his thumb strokes over his cheekbone. Douglas swallows hard at the sudden shift in mood, the light joking gone in favor of this tense intimacy. Martin meets his eyes.

“You.” He breathes. “You are more inspiring than any work of art and every day I get to come home and find you waiting, you take my breath away.”

The declaration, bold and bare and so heart-wrenchingly honest, hangs heavy in the air between them, and in the face of it, Douglas can't really do more than lean forward and pull Martin into a kiss.


End file.
